The Best Medicine
by 247Lyricism
Summary: There's a fine line between best friend and girlfriend...where does Hermione fall in Harry's world? Song in Chapter 3 is credited to Nickel Creek, titled "Green and Gray." Song in Epilogue is credited to INXS, titled "Need You Tonight."
1. Prologue

**The Best Medicine: Prologue**

I've seen Harry date other girls. He's had his share of bad ones, and a few decent ones, but he's never had a _good_ girlfriend. I'm not meaning to be harsh, but it's the truth. They're always very pretty girls, I'll admit; they're much prettier than _me_, for certain. And they're always a little bit star-struck, which makes them look up to him, but they're never really girls that he can sit down and talk to. They're so very shy about being on a date with the Boy Who Lived, and they sort of freeze up, and get nervous. They're hard to converse with. 

Part of me sympathizes with them a bit, because Harry can be very intimidating sometimes. He's gotten so tall since his time at Hogwarts was over, and he's got very intense, penetrating eyes that look even bigger behind those glasses, and, of course, there is that scar that just openly states that Harry is, in fact, the famous Boy Who Lived. If I met him for the first time, and was bent on impressing him, _I_ would certainly have a difficult time –

Still. Perhaps this is all very rude of me to say, and I apologize – but honestly, no one would be able to enjoy a date with a girl who was too much in awe, too _flabbergasted to make decent conversation. I feel worse for _him_ than for those girls, because those girlfriends of his can turn around in an instant and go and have a normal relationship with a man if it doesn't work out. Harry can't. If his relationship falls apart, and he goes to find another girl, it's exactly the same thing, over and _over_ again. She's always that same type, that coy fan-girl who giggles and smiles, but she never asks, "How was your day? How are you? Do you need anything, Harry? What's the matter?" _

That's what _I'm_ here for. I'm the girl in his life that asks those sorts of questions, who really cares. I'm not saying I'm perfect, and that I'm the best friend in the world. I'll admit that I can be irritated, and bossy, and when I'm not in the mood for much of anything, I might say, "Quiet, I'm trying to read right now." And it's easy to bury my face in a book. But Harry's my friend. He's been my friend for ages, and he knows, even if I can be silly and trivial sometimes, that he can come to me. And he does. 

He lives in the next apartment, to the left of mine, and Ron's just down the hall, too, so Harry might come in, with hardly a knock, just to say his hellos, and drink some coffee before he goes off to his Auror training, and ask me about something that confused him last night in his usual studying. 

I'm the girl who _cares_. I'm not meaning to be cocky, but I know I _am_ better than all the girlfriends he's ever had, because I care about him. He's more than just a man who has a scar from when he was a baby, who suffered under the terror of Voldemort for all of his life. He's not just someone to be written about in the "Prophet" to get papers sold in the morning. He's not just someone who you go on a date with and then you tell all your friends the next day, "I went to dinner with Harry Potter," like he's a prize, like it's some great honor, like it's just for the shock factor of it. 

He's a _person. He's a human, who goes and studies and lives in an apartment and needs to shower every day, and – he shaves with a razor that's collecting rust. He cooks his own food when he's not too tired, though his best friends do it for him when he's really exhausted and needs his rest. Usually _I_ do it. Ron's cooking is lax and he knows it. I'm a _much_ better cook than he is, and I make good soup, which Harry likes very much. _

Harry Potter likes _soup_ for God's sake; he's a normal person. Anybody likes soup –

But, anyway. The point of the matter is that Harry stopped dating a while ago. It's been several months since he last went out with a girl. I think he's waiting for everything to die down, for the public to forget him a little bit, so when he goes out with a girl, and he tells her his name, she won't know who he is right off. She'll have to think about it, but she won't be able to quite remember at first. It'll be right on the tip of her tongue. She won't remember who he is until the end of the date, but by that point, it'll be too late for her to make a fool of herself. That's Harry's plan for dating – somewhat of a joke, but it might really work.

If it ends up working out really well for him with a nice girl, he'll tell me. He always has told me about his dates. If he gets lucky with a decent date, he'll come home with a big smile, proud and happy, hopeful like when he was a young boy at Hogwarts for the first time, and eating Chocolate Frogs on the train with Ron. I'll be happy for him if he finds himself a good girl. After all, Harry does deserve it more than anyone. 

I mean, Ron is too much of a goof to really get upset about a bad date, and his spirits don't falter, and he doesn't get too attached. And me – well, I'm _content. I'm studying at the local London wizarding university, and taking all sorts of difficult classes, and I don't have much time to date. And, like I said, I'm content with what I have._

But, Harry – he really does deserve a good girlfriend, someone who he can talk to late at night, and someone who can make him smile when he thinks of her, and someone who won't be scared to stand up for him, and someone who loves him. A part of me knows that even if he doesn't find a girlfriend like that, he's got a girl right here, waiting for him, who's better for him than anyone else – but, he really does deserve a good girlfriend. 

I'm not saying that I'm in love with him. Or maybe I am. But that's not the _point – the point is, Harry's gone around, gone on dates, like he's searching for something, but doesn't he know that his best friend is a girl who cares about him so much, more than all his past girlfriends have _ever _cared? _

He said to me once, "It would be nice to have a girl who was just comfortable to be with – none of those silly teenyboppers or airheads. I just want someone who's normal and understands and sees me like more than just someone who gets in the newspaper." Well, Harry, I'm your best friend, but I'm everything you're looking for in a girlfriend. 

But maybe Harry's problem is just that. I'm his best friend, not his girlfriend. I never have been. He's seen me turn into a cat, petrified, beat up – it was all for him – but, more importantly, he's seen me at my worst. There's nothing attractive about that. It's like I'm too comfortable, like he doesn't even consider it. I'm a girly, bossy, studious version of Ron. I'm a best friend, not a girlfriend. 

I don't really like to think about it too much. It's upsetting, because, as conceited as this sounds, I know that if I was Harry's girlfriend, he'd never go looking again for anything else. It's frustrating, because he's unhappy, and I know I could make him happy. Does he not even see it? Am I not enough? I don't know. 

Once, I talked to Ron about it, but I don't think he knew terribly well what he was talking about, although I got the impression that it's simply a lack of attraction, which I can understand. His girlfriends have all been much prettier than me, certainly.

But, I _said, I don't like to think about it too much, even though I do think about it more than I should. I don't even know if it's that I'm in love with him, or that I want to make him happy. Maybe it's __both. I don't know. But there's a part of me, a huge part, that's so curious – what would it be like to __kiss him? I won't deny that Harry is a very attractive man. And I know him so well. I know everything about him. I have a right to be attracted to him – more of a right than __any of those girls. I know who he is. I know his heart, I know his mind. Can you deny a young woman's curiosity to know his __body? _

Well, I'm Hermione Granger. I'm Harry Potter's best friend, and the best medicine he could ever have for his lovesickness. It's okay, though. I can go about my life normally, easily, quietly. Harry can always come to me when he needs me. It's been more than 10 years since I've known him and my craving to do anything to make him happy grows with each day. He will always have me, no matter _how he has me. _

**End Prologue. **

**Authors Note: Standard disclaimers apply. This is a prologue to a multi-part story which isn't thick with plot, but, as you may have guessed, it's a romance. I'm very excited about it and proud of it. Let me know what you think of it. Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 1

There's something lingering in my mind as I wake up. I think it's Monday morning. I wanted to say something, but I can't remember it right now; I feel a hand nudge me gently, shaking me softly, distracting me from the fuzzy thing I've been dreaming of. I can feel the sun's heat on my blanket, warming me, perhaps overly so. I roll over a bit, half-asleep. I see my rose-colored blanket, like the color of a sunset in a painting, with the pale shape of a hand silhouetted against it. "The alarm hasn't gone off yet, let me sleep," I say quietly. 

"I need some eggs," Harry says. "I'm really sorry to wake you up, but I was wondering if you can lend me some." 

"Eggs?" I ask, confused, half-asleep still and very unsure of what eggs have to do with anything. "What do you need eggs for? It's so early. It's too early to be asking me for eggs, Harry!" Tired, I become very amused very easily. I laugh and pull the covers over my head, so my giggling is muffled. "It's 6 o'clock in the morning, and you're asking me if I have any eggs – don't you see the humor in this? Oh, it's so early, Harry." 

Harry sits on my bed and pulls the covers down from over my head, smiling and not sure if it's really all that funny. Harry is the kind of person who would _never yank the covers off you, not even in an emergency. "I'm sorry for waking you up. But I don't have anything left in my house to eat, and you've always got something. I'll make you some, too, if you want," he says, smiling down at me. I make a nod at him, and he gives my hair a tug before getting up and going out of the room. _

I lie quietly in bed for five minutes or so more. The sun casts very yellow shadows on my wall. I look out the window, right next to my bed, and see sunrays slip over the city, glide over the buildings and stone of the streets. From my room I can see part of the St. Stephen's Tower – Big Ben, as they call it. It's all lit up with a morning glow, and a dark shadow falls from under it. I hear the very early bustle of the city, see the taxi cabs wind down fast through corners, and feel the rumble of the underground station very near here. There's a faint sizzle in the kitchen; indeed Harry has found the eggs. 

I smooth my hands over my legs and know that, despite the little uncomfortable quivers of my heart, life is good. 

My alarm goes off. It's a standard magical alarm which chirps like a bird as opposed to the obnoxious blaring. Fortunately, it doesn't go off until I'm completely out of bed. I stumble to my feet, push open my door, and enter the kitchen. 

Harry is stirring eggs in my good pan, which I brought from my parents' house when I moved out. He looks so maternal, so at ease doing a basic chore. Even though he's more magically inclined than Ron and I combined, sometimes he likes to do household chores himself, without any help from magic. I think it's partially because he's so used to having done it at the Dursley house, unaware for so long of his capabilities. His life was not so complicated then; it wasn't happy, but it was very simple. I don't blame him for trying to make his life easier, for liking to do things like a normal person, like he's Joe Anybody. 

Imagine – Harry Potter likes to make _eggs,_ all by himself, at a little after 6 in the morning, just because he likes to remind himself that he's a human being, that he's real, not just a man you hear about in the gossip column once in a while.

He sees me coming. He finishes up and leaves the eggs to cool, and sits on my counter, which he knows I don't really like, but he's so tall and it's much easier for him. For him I break the rules. I always have. 

"I really am sorry to have woken you up – but I don't have anything in my kitchen except for leftovers from dinner three nights ago.  It wasn't very good three nights ago, and I doubt it'll be better now," Harry apologized. 

I smile and hop onto the counter with him. "It's okay. My alarm went off a few minutes ago. Losing five minutes sleep isn't going to _kill me," I tell him. I cock an eyebrow at him. "Did you even try going to Ron's flat?"_

Harry shakes his head and laughs. "Of course not; I have to drag Ron with me to go buy food, or he'd never do it himself. I figure that if I'm down to my last bit of food, his shelves have been empty for a week, if not more." 

"That would explain why he's been going out with a few of his work partners for the last few days for meals," I chuckle. "It's good that he's made friends at the Quidditch Supply Store, though; I was afraid that he wouldn't, and that he might be shy." 

"Apparently not; in fact, he tells me that there's a young lady he's got an eye for. She works behind the counter, making sales, but turns out to be quite the Quidditch expert, and rather pretty, he says," Harry replies. He leans back, lying on the counter as though it were a sofa, crossing his arms behind his head. 

I give a sideways smirk, always interested in this topic; Ron's past romantic interests always have been entertaining to see play out. "Hopefully she's not another veela-type," I reply. "I should hope Ron has learned to avoid them by now."

At this, too, Harry snorts and snickers. "The last one was a half-veela, wasn't she? I saw her once; she looked so pale and eerie, like a unicorn," he comments. "And didn't she have a drinking problem? Sounds like a bad combination." 

"Oh, didn't Ron tell you about that? There was a terrible incident, and she got quite intoxicated with pomegranate liquor, and they ended up at St. Mungo's. Needless to say, I think Ron figured out _himself to get out of that relationship," I reply, giving a slight smile. "Poor Ron." _

Harry gives a similar smile, but seems somewhat aloof. He sits for a moment, mumbling likewise sympathies for Ron. I glance up at the ceiling where he's looking.  "Let's get some eggs, shall we?" he says suddenly, sitting up, not making a look at me. I get us both plates and forks, and once we're settled with full plates at the table, Harry starts talking again. "Hermione, I have a somewhat serious question for you." 

  
I nod. "Let's hear it. What seems to be the problem?" I ask, and stab a forkful of egg. 

"Do you think I should start dating again?" he asks, leaning forward. There is a curiosity in his gaze, his glasses somewhat askew, his eyes bigger behind them, bolder, greener, more inquisitive. 

I chew, and try to swallow. I can't, because my throat hurts, and deep down in my chest, behind my heart. So, this painful subject is breached once more. I make a brief escape route for my eyes, looking down, not trying to think of an answer even to his question, but trying to think how I can avoid from showing that I can never answer this question honestly. 

I manage to catch my breath. "Do _you_ think you should?" I ask very evasively. 

He makes a shrugging motion and prods his eggs with the end of his fork, seeming to have suddenly lost his appetite. "I don't know. I'm kind of lonely," he confesses. 

Now I really can't eat. I feel like I've got the worst case of heartburn, but eggs don't give you that. Harry just said he was "lonely," as though he was "alone." But I have always been there for him. I went looking for clues for Harry when the Chamber of Secrets was opened, and was petrified by the sight of that serpent for him. I stayed up late to let him copy my homework that I worked so hard on. I defended him against Malfoy. I told him when Ron broke his arm and needed help that he should go ahead, because he was the hero, not me. I stepped up to fight, and was clever and broke rules and ran from Filch and did so many things that I never knew I could, and knew I shouldn't – all for Harry. I've been his sidekick, breaking all my own morals, all my own boundaries, getting rid of parts of myself, because he needed me to. I would give up more than that for him. I would give everything, if he so much as asked.

If I could step in front of him and take a blow for him, take the problem away for him, I would, always, if I knew he needed it. Haven't I always? And he calls himself "lonely," as though he has absolutely no one in the world. 

Harry seems to see that I'm not saying anything, and opens his mouth to speak again. "Maybe this isn't something you can understand. Maybe I should just ask Ron," he says. 

"Why?" I manage to ask. "Because I'm – a girl?" 

"No – well, maybe." Harry fidgets uncomfortably, and I know why he was so hesitant and uneasy about asking. He puts down his fork, as though he can't swallow either. It clatters. "Maybe it's not so much that I'm lonely, but – I've never had a good relationship, not ever, Hermione. It makes a person – kind of itchy, and impatient." 

"If you're going to say you think it's _your_ fault, it's not," I reply coolly, trying to be unspecific, general, unbiased. 

"No, no. I wasn't going to say that. But I mean – haven't you ever just wanted to have somebody to hold you, Hermione?" Harry asks me very suddenly. I feel my hand suddenly shake, and I hope he's not waiting for an answer, because I just was asked a question that I can't raise my hand and call out the response to. I simply – do not know, and it startles me. Harry apparently feels awkward at my silence, and puts his head in his hands.

He goes on, "I mean, not just someone who you can talk to, and laugh with, but haven't you wanted someone who will – someone who you can fall asleep with in bed, and wake up in the morning with, like it's the most normal thing in the world? Haven't you wanted someone who will just kiss you, and not even question it? It would be real casual and all that," he said.  

Again, I note how my hands are very shaky, and how I don't know what to say, or what to feel, but I can almost hear my heart in my chest, thundering like the underground train rolling to a halt in the station down the street.

He gets frustrated, and puts his fist on the table, like he's grappling with himself. "I don't know what I'm talking about," he says irritably, "so never mind." 

"Okay," I reply. But when I look up at him, he's trying to say something again. "I mean, you can keep going if you want."

Harry blushes, as though he's embarrassed to be revealing all of this to me. Harry looks at me. "I want to – be in love, Hermione. Not just to love someone, but be in_ love _with them_. I've never felt that. And I'm getting old. I'm 23 and I've never been in love. People start getting married at this age. It's not that I'm unhappy, but that –" _

He pauses, looking down at his eggs again. He looks out the window, at the floor. He looks everywhere but at me. "I've been through a lot in my life, Hermione. Both of us have. And I sometimes feel like I've gotten the short end of the deal. I've seen and felt death, depression, fear, the greatest loss, but I've never been in love." He gives a little laugh. "Doesn't that seem kind of _unfair to you?"_

I crack a smile, too. "Yeah, it seems very unfair," I remark calmly, trying to soothe the sparks going off all the way down my chest. 

"Do you think I'm being unreasonable, though? Maybe I'm just really impatient," he admits. He glances at the clock on my wall. "I'm going to be late for training, Hermione. Thank you for listening – and thanks for the eggs." 

"Of course," I say, too dazed to speak more than five words at a time. I turn around to watch him go. He places his plate and fork in the sink and quickly sets a spell to work to clean them up. I sigh and know that, despite anything we might hope, life is indeed very complicated these days. 

He thanked me for the _eggs,_ I tell myself. 

Angry, and not sure why this upsets me so much, I put my dishes in the sink, too, and leave the spell running on. I head into my room to take a shower and get ready for classes, trying to not think about what just happened, because I don't know what to make of his questions. 

All I know is that if there was _anyone_ I would want to just hold me, it would have to be Harry. 

~

The topic doesn't come up until later that night. After his Auror training for the day, Harry comes over to my flat to ask me a question about a subject in his book. Halfheartedly, in the middle of talking it over, he asks me, "Why aren't you dating, Hermione?" 

I pause. "I don't have time, Harry," I say with a sigh, exasperated and frustrated because part of me feels like I'm not being honest. "I have a lot of schoolwork to do. And, besides, if I dated, I wouldn't be able to help _you with your work at night," I add teasingly, to keep the conversation light. _

We are sitting on my old blue couch in my sitting room, his book between us and the window with the city's twinkling lights and mayhem behind us, far away, out the window and out of our world. Harry stretches his long legs out a little, chuckling. 

Then he scoots a little closer to me, tilting his head. "You should date, though," he says, as though it's a fact, putting his arm behind my back on the couch. 

"Why?" I ask, lacking emotion purposefully in my voice so that he doesn't know how curious I am. 

He pats at his hair thoughtlessly, looking at me with a green glance that unnerves me, because I know he's scrutinizing me. At times like these, even when he's looking at me real hard, he feels so distant. "Well, you're pretty," he finally tells me softly. "You could get a lot of guys." 

_Wait._

He called me "pretty_." _He complimented me. He complimented my _looks_. Harry thinks I'm – _pretty. _

I feel the color rush into my cheeks faster than a lightning strike and a slight smile crack on my face. I look down at the writing in the textbook, not even sure if I can manage any words. No, I certainly can't speak. I glance up at him. Harry looks amused at me, which only makes me blush more, because I know he's still looking at me, and I wonder if he's still thinking about my looks, or if he thinks about it often. 

"You really think so?" I ask hesitantly and quietly. 

Harry's smile widens. He gives a sort of obvious shrug. "Of course I think so," he answers simply. His hand behind me on the couch brushes against my hair. "You're beautiful." He says it like it's a fact, like it's natural to say, like I knew that. 

_Beautiful._

At this, I chuckle, like a schoolgirl, childishly, and am distraught and feel silly to let words like "pretty" and "beautiful" get to me, but it was said by _Harry, whom I can't decide how to feel towards, but – it felt like pieces fell together when he said that to me. _

Suddenly, Harry gets sort of uncomfortable, and I see the distantness back in his face, like he doesn't understand my reaction, which is reasonable, because _I can't even understand my reaction. He looks down at the book.  Maybe he didn't mean it to be such a compliment. Maybe he's just trying to be nice to me. Maybe that's just something you say to your friends, because you just don't think they'll take it so _seriously -- _because your friend isn't supposed to be in love with you, anyway._

I struggle for reason, and try to keep my head on straight, and stop giggling suddenly. "Well, I mean – it takes a lot more to get a guy than looks, Harry," I say quickly, cliché as it might be. 

He shrugs. "Oh, sure, but you've got plenty going for you, Hermione." He says it in a casual manner, just like he wants his romance to be – casual and easy and, moment by moment, I think I could be falling in love with him.  

He suddenly brushes me off. Harry looks away, to the side, like maybe a picture has caught his eye on my wall. Is it just words that he's saying? Now he turns from me, like – like he only half-meant it.

Does he know what he's doing? Does he know what he's saying? 

I'm about to say something, but Harry interrupts me. "Besides, Hermione, I think it'd make you happier," he says, shifting in his seat and pulling his arm back from behind me. He pulls the book a little closer to himself. "It would be fun. I'm sure there's a lot of guys out there who would be just perfect for you, who you could really click with." 

I feel my stomach twist. The words "a lot of guys" seem to refer to _other guys, as in guys other than Harry. _

Harry, so comfortable, a culmination of everything in life that I've enjoyed in the more than 10 years I've known him – could it be any other way than him and me? Doesn't he see how obvious it is? It works, this idea of him being together with me. Two friends, best friends, who would go to the end for each other – isn't it only natural that they should fall in love? 

I could be everything he wants, the one that he could just – fit with. 

I lean back stiffly where his arm was, giving a semblance of an appreciative smile. "You seem to think it'll do me real good, Harry. But I told you, I'm – _happy where I am right now.  What could make me happier?"_

He grins at me boyishly. "I bet there are lots of those smart-types out there, with big glasses and backpacks as big as yours – well, maybe not quite as big," Harry tells me, half-teasingly, maybe. "You could talk with a guy like that for hours all about _The History of Hogwarts, _and stay up all night studying for your university classes_." _

I just keep thinking that Harry has big glasses. 

Harry doesn't know anything. But he laughs at himself, because he thinks he does. His mood has suddenly gone from off-kilter to mischievous. He leans in. "Or," he whispers, his smile twisted, "you could stay up all night – '_studying.'" I laugh, too, trying to pretend that everything is normal as can be. I wish he wouldn't talk to __me about "__studying." _

_"_I think I would rather spend my time I _actually studying, Harry! It would be horrible to show up to class, not being prepared for a lecture, and then having to explain how I didn't prepare because I was __kissing someone all night long –" I stop, embarrassed. "Oh, I don't even want to think about it." _

"All right, then. We won't think about it," he says, getting serious again. "Aren't you supposed to be helping me _actually_ study, anyway?" His tone is somewhat vexed, somewhat playful – unsure. 

"Um – we were talking about shield spells," I say awkwardly. He blows hot and cold on me – and we fall into the monotonous cycle of book reading.

~

It's several days later. Darkness has fallen hard tonight, and I'm rushing frantically around. I slam my bedroom door closed and fumble with my lock, impatiently, worriedly. My hands reach for a shirt, a black skirt in my closet, some shoes that don't fit well but look nice enough. 

The door to my flat opens. I hear it open with a burst. I hear Harry's footsteps, falling down on my floor. I know it's Harry because he steps heavier than Ron does, and he doesn't shuffle. My heart starts to race, his presence making me even weaker, even more afraid.

He knocks on my bedroom door. "Hermione, are you in there?" he asks, seeming to be very rushed. 

"Harry, I'm getting dressed. You're going to have to _wait," I reply nervously, trying to do up the last few buttons on my shirt. _

"Well, will you be long? It shouldn't take this long for you to get dressed." I hear him pacing a bit, and I can't tell if he's upset or if he's excited. 

I leave a button undone and fling open the door, almost hitting him with it. He steps back, and gives me a triumphant sort of smile. 

"Would you let me get dressed, _please,_ Harry? I'm going to be late," I say shakily. Harry seems to be glad to at least be able to talk to my face rather than the door. He comes in and sits on my bed and watches me fidget self-consciously in front of the mirror. 

"I'm shocked that I'm the last to hear this news," he says lightly, leaning back and propping himself up with one elbow. "I can't believe you didn't tell me you have a _date _tonight." 

"So, _Ron must have told you," I say, trying to pin up my hair. "I _told_ him not to say anything, but I guess he couldn't keep his mouth shut."_

"Well, you didn't tell me, so I had to find out from _somebody_," he says, partially amused. Now, glancing back in the mirror, I see he is partway smirking, but also trying to hide his amusement. "Why didn't you want me to know?" Harry asks, looking at my face in the mirror quietly, muffling a smile.

"Because I knew you'd come in," I explain, trembling, "and you would be asking me about this – this _date._" I put emphasis on the word, just like he did. I struggle to put up another strand of hair and it falls out again. Frustrated, I stab at it repeatedly. 

I go on, "And – I knew you'd be asking about who the guy is, and if he's a smart type like you said – and you would take all the credit for having encouraged me into it. And you –" 

I pause, my eyes getting watery, and I throw down the hairpin. 

"These pins – they don't work. My hair's too thick for them —"

"Just leave it down, Hermione," Harry says, standing up and smoothing out my hair, suddenly solemn. "And don't cry, _please_, don't. Your hair looks fine down." He looks at my face in the mirror again. "I didn't mean to upset you."

I _know that Harry doesn't mean to. But he doesn't even know what he's talking about, like usual. _

I'm standing here all dressed up for someone else and it doesn't feel right, especially with Harry right behind me, touching my hair. I feel like I'm going out on a date and it's some sort of _revenge_ – revenge again him for not seeing the obvious, revenge to prove that he's right and I might be pretty after all. 

But I don't _want _to fight anyone. Harry told me to go out on a date, but I feel like I'm fighting myself, and that I'm not proving anything.

_I just don't know._

He smoothes out my hair some more, and I don't say anything. This was all Harry's idea, and now I'm crying all over my dark shirt, because I don't know what I want to do. Maybe I should cancel, or maybe I should go kill Ron, or maybe—

"Hermione," he says. "You don't have to go if you don't want to." 

"But, Harry —" I begin to say, but he turns me around so that my back is to the mirror, and I'm pinned between and a reflection of my sorry self. 

"Hermione, listen to me. Don't feel pressured to go on a date just because I said so. If you say you're happy how things are, then _don't_ go out. I don't want you to be upset," Harry tells me. His eyes are dead serious behind his glasses. 

"He's a nice guy, though," I say quietly, looking up at Harry, and it suddenly strikes me that he's holding me close to comfort me, and that his shirt is warm. "And – he _does_ have big glasses." I give a small sort of smile, and he smiles, too, and we almost understand each other for a second.

"Your call," he says. He gives me a small kiss on the forehead, and lets me go before I can fathom that, yes, Harry just kissed me on the forehead. He turns to go and leave, and, desperately, I know I have to say something, because I just _can't_ let him walk out, thinking that he made me upset. I can't just let my best friend walk out of my flat, right after I've been crying, because I need him right now instead.

"Harry?" I call out, and he stops to turn around. "Harry, do you mind if I change out of these clothes and come over to your flat instead, and I can make you soup –" I suddenly am aware how stupid I am, how lovesick to be bribing him with soup. 

Flustered, I start again. "I mean, I think it would be better if I didn't go and stayed put instead."

Harry nods. "If you come over, I can make some soup for _you. It'll make you feel better," he says quietly. "And – you still have a pin in your hair, over on the right side." I reach up, glancing in the mirror to pull it out, and I hear the front door close. _


	3. Chapter 2

Sometimes, I wonder if Harry is a good kisser. I mean, I don't think about it often. But, I'm sitting here trying to study for a test tomorrow, and Ron and Harry are in my kitchen looking for something to eat, and kissing him is all I can think about right now. I don't know why I'm thinking about it right now. He came in with Ron ten minutes ago, like everything was normal, and touched his chin once, just to scratch at it, and his finger brushed against his lips. That was all it took. 

I'm not thinking about the potency of bat droppings or the effects of an overdose of eagle feathers in potions. I can't think about that while he's over there, _pursing his lips, for goodness' sake._

"Hermione, I think you need to do some shopping, too," Harry says. There he goes again – sticking out his lower lip, like he _knows_ I'm watching. "There's not much in here except for – very old, old food. _Please tell me you haven't been eating some of this stuff."_

"If you look on the right side, I think there might be some cheese and sliced tomatoes. You could make sandwiches," I offer, trying not to look up at him. 

"Hermione, don't you have any _meat_?" Ron asks. I glance up; he's making a muscle at me. "We're growing men. We've got to get strong and have our protein. Mum _said_ so." 

"Beggars can't be choosers," I reply distractedly. 

Ron is laughing suddenly. "Would you look at this?" he chuckles, pulling out a bag of very old sliced deli chicken.  It has a sickly sort of twinge to it; I suppose it must have been forgotten in the very back of the meat compartment. "Hermione has _mold_ growing in her freezer box. Now that's a first!" He dangles it in the air and swings it in Harry's face, to which Harry frowns and makes faces. 

I look up, and scowl. "That freezer is supposed to have an anti-fungal spell on it!" I cry. "Do you mean to say that it's not working? I paid extra for that." 

"Well, you can only expect the spells to work so well, Hermione," Harry offers, leaning across my counter and taking the bag of bread into his hand. A curl of hair touches against his glasses, and he runs his fingers across the back of his head. I can't _stand_ myself for being so infatuated.

"I bet you that this bag has been in here for three weeks, if not more," Ron says, coming over and hanging the bag in front of my book. "It's _disgusting. Look at it." _

I do, but it is Ron that I can't help smiling at; he looks dead serious, as though he had just found arsenic in my cabinet. I laugh, and he breaks the ice that I'm holding inside.

"Oh, Ron, get that out of my face! That _is_ disgusting, you're right, I admit it. Please, could you just throw it away, then, instead of torturing me with it?" I reply, making flapping motions at him with my hands. 

Harry is in the corner, having gotten out the cheese and tomatoes, taking out four slices of bread and watching with amusement. Ron, in his usual silly manner, dances around my kitchen with the bag of decomposing chicken. He holds it out from him, and spins, and hums a waltz. Only _Ron_ would dance with old chicken. 

"Oh, c'mon, but this is a once-in-a-lifetime thing, Hermione. You might want to write it on your calendar. Catch, Harry," Ron cries, tossing the bag to Harry. 

Harry makes a gasp and jumps away from the flying bag. "Ron, no, I don't want it!"

I don't see it, but I hear a very squishy splat noise. 

"Get out of my flat, both of you!" I say, rising and pointing to the door. "You can throw that old chicken around _outside_, if you want, but not in here! I have a _test_ tomorrow, for goodness' sake." I get up and the book falls off my lap. 

"Hermione, I kind of think that's Ron's point," Harry offers logically. 

I try to glare, even though it's very hard, because glaring isn't the thing I want to do to Harry right now. He takes advantage of my silence and grabs at the sandwiches that he has just made, making a small smile of apology. 

"Never mind, then, we'll be off," Ron says. "Nice meeting you, chap," he adds, nudging the bag of chicken on the floor with his socked foot. "Uh-oh, Hermione, I think he's leaking. You might want to clean that up."

"Leaking? Oh, Ron! Get out, before you make any more messes!" I exclaim. 

Harry makes puppy-dog eyes at me. "Me, too, Hermione?" he asks, looking innocent. 

"Yes, you! You'll – you'll only encourage him," I tell Harry quickly, needing an excuse to get him out of my flat.

He looks at me, defeated, while I usher both him and Ron out of my front door. If Ron is going to play with his food and Harry is going to so much as _look at me, I will fail tomorrow's test before I even enter the classroom. I might as well get them both out now, while I have an excuse. I bend over and pick up the disgusting bag of chicken, which is, in fact, leaking some sort of liquid. What a mess! Only boys would make a mess like this. _

Sometimes, I wonder how I ended up being best friends with them – with two _boys. And I wonder why it is that I feel like I want to kiss one, but not the other. It doesn't make any sense, but – I've figured out recently that things never make sense when you're the only girl in a group of three. _

The concept of kissing Ron is very different entirely. He might start laughing somewhere in the middle of it, you would think. Or he would blush, and get very flustered. When you think of trying to kiss Ron, you have to start thinking very _seriously_, and that's not what Ron's about at all. Ron is a wonderful person, and fun, and good to talk to when you want encouragement, but "serious" is not a word that I associate with him often. Or ever.

Ron was just in my kitchen, dancing around with a bag of moldy deli chicken, for goodness' sake. But, Harry, on the other hand – I could _seriously kiss him, and not have to laugh about it afterwards, like it was nothing._

But I have a test tomorrow, anyway. And I ought to study for it, instead of staring into space, wondering why I'm in love with one best friend and not the other, because – a part of me thinks it has to do with more than that, and not just because Ron plays with his food. 

~ 

Tonight, we are at Ron's flat, because he promised to pick up Chinese food for me to pay back for the mess he made. Harry made him do it. 

We've already eaten, though. Ron's looking through a magazine and Harry and I are both studying. The leftovers are still sitting out on the table, because we're all too lazy to clean them up. We don't have all of the lights on, and there's a pale sort of glow around the room, like a streetlamp that fades into the corners, and it's just us three in the light, just how it should be. 

Ron is in a recliner, and Harry is next to him, with a table and lamp in between them. I am on the couch with a blanket that Ron's mother made him; it's got all the warm, comfortable feeling that usually comes with Mrs. Weasley's knitting. 

Ron whistles, and Harry and I look up. "What is it, Ron?" I ask, shifting to see what he's staring at. "Has some new broom come in?" It's a Quidditch Supply Store catalog, I can see. 

Ron rolls his eyes and huffs. "Are you kidding? Of _course not. It's just – well, the witch modeling this robe is quite a looker, wouldn't you say, Harry?" He turns around the catalog to show off a pretty blond woman with a rather standard Quidditch robe on. "And, well – it is a nice robe, now that you mention it."_

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Ron," I mutter, turning back to my textbook. Typical.

"_You wouldn't understand, you – __girl!" Ron spits back, making a mock glare at me. I roll my eyes, not offended, because I know that no one __honestly expects me to be a boy, anyway. "Now, c'mon, Harry, you've got to admit she's got plenty going for her." He tries to hand over the magazine to Harry, but Harry shakes his head and makes a sort of face._

"Oh, I've seen better," Harry says very innocently and halfheartedly, and he turns back to his book, too. 

Ron makes an exasperated noise. "Oh, bloody _hell,_ Harry, you're making me look like a _swine_ in comparison," he sighs, and he turns the page, looking back down. Then, I notice, oddly enough, that he looks up, and glances from me to Harry and back again. Then, he dives back into the catalog. 

"What?" I ask, suspicious as to what he might be thinking, and partially not wanting to know. "What're you looking at?"

Ron shrugs and gives me another playful scowl, and then turns the unpleasant face onto Harry, too. "Harry," he starts, and I know I ought to prepare for a Ron Speech. "Harry, I can't believe this. You're reading a book instead of taking a peek at a good-looking young witch in a Quidditch magazine. You just turned down girls _and Quidditch for a __textbook, mate! You're – you're turning into __Hermione!"_

"Oh, Ron, leave him alone. That's enough," I say urgently, not wanting him to go on, because I'm afraid of what I'll hear him say. 

"Seriously, Ron, don't panic," Harry interjects calmly, and I stop worrying. "It's just that – I've seen better, that's all." He gives me a glance and then looks back down at his book again. 

Why did he look at _me_? 

Ron looks at me, too, somewhat disgruntled, though only pretending to be so, and then huffs loudly and flips the page loudly again. 

~ 

Friday night rolls around. Both Harry and I have done well enough on our most recent tests, and so Ron has kindly taken myself and Harry out for dinner and drinks to celebrate.

We are walking back up the stairs to our flats, but I doubt we'll end up going to our own flats. In fact, Harry opens up the door to his. Ron hiccups and makes a joke: "You're putting in the wrong end of the key there, Harry! No, really, you are. You're just too drunk to know the difference." We all laugh, even though Harry isn't that intoxicated at all; we're all just a bit tipsy, and everything is a bit funnier right now. 

"Abracadabra, lights!" Ron says loudly as we enter. "Why isn't it working?" I'm not really sure if he's joking or not.  Perhaps Ron is a _little _more tipsy than Harry or myself. But Harry gets the lights on, and everything is flooded in a very bright white, and the whole place is crisp and clean, but with little touches of Harry all around it; his old Quidditch robe is folded like a trophy on the shelf, and an old photo album sits on the table in the sitting room, and I can see the Invisibility Cloak sparkling as it hangs in the closet. 

Ron takes a seat at the sitting room couch, propping his feet up on the table very naturally. "Your place looks awful clean, Harry," he remarks quietly, looking up at the ceiling. "Much cleaner than it was on Tuesday." 

"Well, Seamus and Dean were going to come and see it on Wednesday, but the plans fell through. So I swept for nothing," Harry says, going into the kitchen and getting out three more drinks. I smirk, knowing I really shouldn't have any more to drink, but – for old friends' sake, cheers. 

Ron drinks his very quickly and lets out another chirping hiccup. "Hermione," he drawls, "what would you do if I poured this on your head?" He picks up my can and holds it high, as though he might. He chuckles and puts it down before surrendering to a fit of giggles. "And what if it dried there, and you didn't know – and it got all sticky, and you had to cut all your hair out?" He laughs and points at me a bit, obviously imagining me bald.

"Oh, no, Ron! I'd – I'd make you get it out of my hair instead. I wouldn't be able to stand being bald," I say, laughing a little, and petting my hair self-consciously. This makes Ron laugh even harder, though. 

Harry raises an eyebrow at me. He's sitting on the counter, sipping his drink, kicking his feet, watching distantly from far, far, far away from me. I look back at him, sitting there, looking very calm with his green eyes just watching, as though he doesn't understand me. 

"And what would you do if I – if I put that old chicken in your hair?" Ron says, trying to hide a smile. He lays back on the couch, kicking up his feet on my lap now. "Don't you remember it, that old chicken?" He makes a big yawn and stretches, as though he might fall asleep soon. 

"That was really funny. You were so mad – but I couldn't stop laughing after you kicked us out. You can even ask Harry." He yawns again. "Don't you remember, Hermione?" he asks me again, sleepily. His eyelids droop, and I smile, and pat his little freckled cheek, and know that there is something _very different about Harry and Ron, whatever that may be._

Ron's shoes are dirty on my skirt. "Yes, Ron, I remember that chicken. But perhaps _you should go to bed." I lean over and take his dirty shoes off my lap and put them on the ground. "Sit up, sit up. You'd best get off to bed before you get too tired."_

"That was really funny, though," he says, getting a bit quieter. He's silent for a moment, sitting up and putting a hand on my shoulder. He looks over at Harry, who is still swinging his feet. "Hey, Hermione, have you ever thought about dating Harry?" 

I stop. _Stop. _

_What? _

"Ron, what are you _talking_ about? What does that – Ron, we were talking about that old _chicken_," I say hurriedly, trying to distract him, trying to make him not think absurd thoughts that maybe he's been thinking about for a while. 

He uses my shoulder to help himself stand. "I know, I know. But – I've noticed that you really should date Harry. I mean, it's because – you didn't see him, just now, but he was _looking_ at you. I thought I should tell you," Ron says with his voice slurred. "You could – work out together." 

It's the alcohol making my blood run thin like water, and then thick and sluggish like honey, dragging. It's like I can feel my blood pumping through my stomach.

"Ron – you're very tired and you need to go to bed. C'mon. Let's go to bed," I say. I don't look at Harry. I can't. I know he heard, but I don't want to see it in his face. I help him walk to the door. "Do you have your keys, Ron?"

"No, wait, Hermione, I mean –" Ron starts to say, turning back to face me.  "Never mind. Forget it, if you don't think so. But – haven't you noticed?" He bends down low and whispers to me, right in my ear, so that Harry can't hear him. "Harry doesn't need any other girl in his life. He needs _you_." 

I would be thrilled to hear that, if I wasn't so afraid. 

"Goodnight, Ron," I say, and I open the front door of Harry's flat for him. "Get some rest – can you get into your flat all right?" But he doesn't say anything, and I see him go down the hall and open the door to his own flat, and then he disappears in the darkness. 

I close the door to Harry's flat, but I don't turn around, because I don't want to see him, sitting on the counter, looking at me, not knowing what I'm thinking – maybe I should just go, so we can talk about it later, or maybe not at all.

"I guess we know Ron's alcohol limit now," Harry says quietly. So, now he has started the conversation. Now I can't leave. 

"I guess we do," I say. I turn around briskly and walk to the couch, with my eyes on the floor. I feel like I'm marching to my own execution; Harry's lights are bright and crisp and shining right through me, it feels like. I feel hot and sweaty under their heat. 

I hear the gentle thumping of Harry's feet, swinging and bumping on the counter. 

"So, what do you think of _that_?" he says. 

I sit in silence and shrug, not even looking at him. If he knew what I thought, if he knew anything at all, if he wasn't so naïve about absolutely everything, if he knew I was in love with him – would he be able to ask me such a question so casually, as though it was just a joke. 

My eyes are fixed to the floor. I hear him push himself off the counter, his feet hitting the floor. I know how he walks. I know his footsteps as they come closer and closer to me. He sits on his own couch, to my right, and the cushion sags under his weight. 

"Hermione," he says. I have to look at him, and am surprised to find that my eyes are blurred with tears. 

"Why are you crying?" Harry asks me. I can barely see him; his hair is a mess on top of his head and his eyes look a bit glazed from the few drinks he's had. 

I wish I knew why I was crying, too. Maybe it's because I'm _so confused as to how I feel. I was just convinced, days before, that life was comfortable – being in the kitchen, entering each others' flats freely, sitting on the couch in silence. I had felt so much like I was in love with being Harry's __friend. _

And then Ron had to come in, and say what he did, and make me think again about how nice it would be to have things be different. To be kissed, to have that romance, and his dark hair all over my hands – isn't that what I _want_? Isn't that just the piece to finish my puzzle?

But maybe – what about _Ron_? What about life _now, when it's the three of us, always? Would we still be able to sit on the couch, with Ron looking at girls in magazines, and Harry joking and teasing him, and me watching and being the girl that fit in with the boys? If I dated Harry, Ron would come in at awkward moments between me and Harry, and things might get embarrassing and strange. Maybe things wouldn't be the same. And to have things be different would be no less than tragic. _

Even when Ron said all those things about Harry needing someone like me, I just kept thinking that things are good now, and that nothing should change, and we'll all have each other. 

But it's so hard to want to keep my life the same and to want it to change at the same time. 

I'm crying because I don't know what I want. I don't know if I could give up being Harry's best friend to become his girlfriend. I can't explain it, not to him, not to Ron, not to myself. No one knows. No one _can _know.

When I look at Harry, he looks kind of scared, too. "I don't know," I tell him. "I'm sorry, but – I don't know." 

"C'mon," he says softly, and his arms open to me. He takes me in, gently, and holds me close, and hears me sniffle. I let my hands touch across his back, across his worn shirt, but just barely, because I'm afraid. I feel his face against my shoulder and my neck. I can feel him breathing. I can feel him being so close. 

"Please don't cry, Hermione," Harry says, and he pulls back to look at me. He holds me steady and makes me look at him with his hands on my shoulders. And he looks absolutely terrified, and so worried, because he doesn't know anything. He never knows _anything_ at all, that stupid, blind, outrageously handsome —

Except, this time, I think he might know _something_.  Because he smiles at me, like he _knows what I'm thinking, and he leans in—_

Slowly he lowers me back on the couch, and kisses my forehead.  I can't believe that Harry Potter is leaning over me, that he kissed me just so gently, and that I can feel his body pressed all against my shoulders and my stomach.

"Whatever it is – it doesn't matter right now. Go to sleep, Hermione. You'll feel better in the morning," he says quietly. 

"I'll go to my flat, then," I whisper quietly, wishing so badly that he wasn't so close, and yet glad that he is. But I push against him, meaning to get up. He won't let me move.

"No, just stay here," Harry says, shaking his head at me. "You don't look like you'll make it."  Self-conscious, still, despite the flutter of my heart, I reach up to touch my hair.

He's still very close, and I can feel the hotness of his breath on my face – please, I don't know what I want. My body and my heart and my head are all arguing. 

"Seriously," he goes on, "you might as well just stay here." He reaches over for a Mrs. Weasley blanket on the adjacent chair and puts it over me. Real naturally, he does it. "Just – go to sleep, Hermione." 

Frantically, quickly, I offer, "Maybe I had better go." I look away at the back of the couch, which is right next to my face by this point. There's all these little stitches – little pale gold ones, like miniature pyramids, meant to give it a classy sort of look. I have to remind myself to never, ever again have more than four of those drinks down at the bar at the corner; it makes me weepy. 

"Hermione," he says, not wanting to argue, but seeing my distress, "just go to sleep. Rest. Don't worry about it." He stands up, tall like a black statue over me, silhouetted by the white lights of his flat. He looks so frightening, like a place you don't want to go, but you know you have to go to anyway. I sneak a glance at him before looking at the back of the couch once more. 

Harry takes a seat in the chair next to the couch, and he is very quiet. I feel like a deer in headlights, except I'm on Harry's couch, frozen solid by something unknown. 

A light flicks off. Now, in the darkness, I feel the tears falling silently. I feel myself falling asleep as the alcohol drags through me, but I can still hear Harry breathing in the chair next to me, sighing a little bit, and can feel his eyes watching me, like a cat's in the night. 


	4. Chapter 3

I wake up in the morning with the sunshine all alight in my hair. I feel like a cinnamon sprinkle, happy and warm. I sit up and the blanket falls around my waist. I rub my eyes, aware suddenly that I've been asleep on Harry's couch all night. A knot full of worry forms in my stomach. 

I crawl out of my blanket cocoon before deciding that it's too cold for that. So I wrap the warm cloth around my shoulders and, with a shuffle, wander haphazardly into his kitchen. I see on his freezer a note, pinned with tape. I pull it off. 

_Hermione—_

_Good morning. I hope you slept well. _

_Ron made me go with him to help him buy flowers for a date tonight. Sorry to leave you, but I think you'll manage. I made you some toast. It's spelled, so hopefully it should still be warm enough. _

_Love you. _

_– Harry  _

I've got to read it twice, simply because I can hardly believe it.

I grin and look at the toast, which is sitting on the counter with the butter melted and dripping a little onto the plate. And then I laugh. I laugh and am dancing around the kitchen, wrapped in my blanket like it's a toga. I'm laughing so hard with my head thrown back.

He said, "Love you." Just so casual – 

I turn on the radio, which I gave him. Harry lived like a Muggle for years and he's more in tune with Muggles than he is with wizards. He likes to listen to it, remembering old songs from when he was a kid, locked under the cupboard. He used to listen through the stairs from Dudley's stereo system upstairs. I thought he needed his own. 

I hear a fiddle start up, jumping into a song, like I'm jumping for joy. **__**

_I'm in a room full of people, hanging on one person's breath,  
We would all vote him most likely to be loved to death.  
I hope he still wants it, but it might remind him of when  
He aimed for the bull's eye and hit it nine times out of ten._

I take my toast over to his small kitchen table, skipping, and I take the Daily Prophet from where it's laying, and open it up, even though I'm too distracted to read.

Harry made me _toast_. And he said he _loved me. _

I can't help but to be ecstatic. I slept through lovely dreams last night, wonderful reveries that made me sigh in my sleep, in the middle of the night. 

Despite the fact that I still feel like I'm wobbling with ever step on two weird scales, on a second in time, this is my moment. Let me have it. I can dance around the kitchen and celebrate and know that I've got more than other girls can say they do. I have a best friend who makes me toast and lets me sleep on his couch and writes me notes to say he loves me.

_That one time his hand slipped, and I saw the dart sail away.  
I don't know where it landed, but I'm guessing between green and gray.  
I thought nothing of it, but it still haunts him like a ghost,  
With all eyes upon him, except two that matter the most._

I eat my toast quietly, listening, subdued while my heart runs a million kilometers an hour. 

After I'm finished, I go to the sink and wash the plate by hand, like life is simple. There are a few other dishes, too, so I do them. I figure it's what I can manage as a favor to Harry. The water runs warm over my hands, warm like blankets and being under Harry's gaze while I fall asleep with tears in my eyes.  I remember the previous night but the knot drops from my stomach to the floor, and I just can't help thinking that I'm sick of crying. I'm running dry.

I still don't know anything. I'm as silly as Harry, who can't see that he's got a best friend head-over-heels for him, even when she fights it. But today – today, I don't want to care about anything. Today is fresh, an unopened can. 

_He says, "Green is the color that everyone sees all around me.  
Gray is the color I see around her, and she's just a blur.  
The more the crowd cheers, the less I can hear  
And they don't really care what I play. It might be for her,  
But for now it's between green and gray."   
  
_

I dry off my hands with a towel. I wander to the sofa, which is right next to the window, and my eyes lift while I fold the blanket and set it down. I look across the city and see the sun shining in all the dark places, like life is beginning today all over again. It's like – it's like I'll start again today and not think about how I've cried, how confused I've been. I'll let the day take me and see what happens, and if Harry falls in love with me, so be it. I won't fight _anything_ today, not when the sun is so bright. 

I go into the bathroom and look at my hair. It's all very loose, I can see in the mirror, going down my hair in soft curls that tend to fluff, and I look very sleepy still, with my cheeks a bit puffy, and a line just begins to run across my cheek. I bet it's from the seam of the sofa cushion. I'm wearing the rumpled clothes from last night, but something about me feels strangely alive and happy, strangely -- _beautiful._  

In the mirror, I smile. 

_  
We paid and we cheered; now we're gone and to us that feels right.  
But for him every one of those evenings turns into a night.  
With another hotel room where he lays awake to pretend_

_That he's doing fine with his notebook and Discman for friends.   
  
_

On the back of the door, there is a large white shirt hanging. It must be Harry's. I smile and I take it off the handle, and I lift it to my nose to smell. It smells like Harry, like his aftershave, like the city, like the sheets in his bed. 

I mean – don't get me wrong. I know what his bed smells like simply because sometimes, when I'm over, we lay in his bed and chat about things, or study, or laugh. It smells like – like heat.

I put on the shirt. I don't know why I want to wear Harry's shirt, but it doesn't help that I'm thinking about being in bed with Harry. Never _mind that. I slide my arms into the sleeves and straighten it over the t-shirt I had been wearing before. I stand in front of the mirror and hug my arms around myself slowly, tugging on the shoulders. It's so big that the shoulder seams fall down my arms about halfway. But somehow it feels like it fits right. _

_  
He says "Green is the color everyone sees all around me.  
Gray is the color I see around her, and she's just a blur.  
Night after night what I hear, what I write fills the room  
And my head starts to sway. It might be for her,   
But for now it's between green and gray."   
  
_

I leave the shirt on. Slipping like a stealthy cat, I round the corner. There's Harry's bed, tucked into the corner of his room. It looks neat and untouched, barely used. I know he must have made it on Wednesday morning; he said he cleaned the house for the expected Seamus and Dean. But it still looks as though it was only slept in once or twice since then. The clothes from last night are sitting on the bed, right on the pillow. 

And then it hits me that Harry _didn't_ sleep here last night. He must have slept next to me on the chair and put his clothes from last night on the bed this morning. 

I let out a very deep sigh. 

I try not to think about the fact that Harry abandoned his bed to sleep next to me in a recliner. I wonder if he fell asleep before I did, or if he stayed up, watching me for a while to be sure I was asleep. Harry would do something like that. 

Something inside of me wants to fall asleep with him again, on his bed this time, with the window shining in starlight and the sheets cool when we slide into them. He'll tuck me under his arm like a doll that keeps his side warm at night. 

I rake my fingers across my scalp and shiver to think of smiling and snuggling under the covers with Harry, feeling his warm chest against me, being pulled against him and listening to the heartbeat underneath the cage that his ribs make. I could pull off his glasses, and put them on the bedside stand, and he would squint at me, and get real close to see. 

And – he would kiss me, dipping me back like water in a fountain, like we were dancing the tango.__

_  
"I want you to love me," he whispers, unable to speak.  
And he wonders aloud why feelings so strong make the body so weak.  
Then he awoke. Now he's scared to death somebody heard.  
If it was you, and you know her, please don't say a word._

The bedroom door opens, and I jump with a start. Harry comes in.

~

Well, I don't know how I got into this. But I did. 

It all began when Harry talked to be about how Ron had a date with the girl from the Quidditch Supply Store tonight. Her name is Ellie and she's got blond hair, like a bombshell, but she's a mean Keeper, according to Ron. And it was Harry's genius idea that we keep ourselves out of their hair. 

"Fine," I had said. "So we won't go knocking on the door to his flat that night." 

He had shaken his head at me. "No, but, Hermione – they might appreciate a _little more space than that."_

"Harry," I had argued, "we _live _here! We have as much of a right to be here as anyone else."

"Oh, c'mon, Hermione! We don't want Ron sitting there anxious. He'll be so scared that we'll walk on the middle of him _kissing_ her; he'll nearly pee his pants. For the insurance of it, maybe we should just go out together. Let's take the opportunity for a night on the town." 

It certainly sounded innocent enough, but then Harry comes over and tells me that it's a _nice_ sort of café we're going to. So now I'm standing in front of my mirror, preparing for what seems like a date with Harry. 

My robes are a pretty medium blue, like the color of my veins, pumping what feels like dead, nervous weight. I spin in front of the long, tall mirror. I fuss with my hair a little bit, trying to not look like I care what Harry thinks of my looks. I put on a bracelet that makes a noise like a chime. I wonder if it will quiver with my nerves.

I tell myself, my _friend_ and I are going out for dinner and some coffee. This is very, very simple, I say. But I know it's a big lie. It's a big, huge, looming lie.

~

After our dinner, we go out to Hyde Park and sit on a bench in the middle of the pretty rose garden there. The flowers are all closed up for nighttime, like they always do. The place is thick with trees, and the city lights shine through the leaves in odd places, making scattered sparkles of light on the stone path. He stretches out both his arms behind him, looking very dashing in a green shirt that tugs _just _right on the planes of his chest.

"We should do this more often," he says casually, looking up and away, the look in his eyes distant. Sometimes, when Harry gets like this, I like to be with him. I know I can't always be in his head at every second, and I don't want to be. But I do like being there while his thoughts drift, just to see him go. 

"Sure thing," I respond, feeling his arm slip behind me. "Ron would have really liked that café we went to, too."

"Well – I meant just you and me. He's going to be going off on an awful lot of dates now, I bet. So it'll just be the two of us," Harry says coolly. 

I look at him and wonder if he said that with such an intention. But he looks very calm, as though he had meant it very innocently. I make a slight tilt of my head away from him. "That'll be unfortunate to have Ron gone away from us, though," I mutter. 

"Is it really so bad?" Harry asks. "Personally, I'd be sick of me, too, and I'm sure he must _love_ the time outside." He chuckles at his own joke. 

"But that's what's so bad about it. Haven't you ever worried that he'll maybe get too sick of us? Haven't you ever thought about how terrible this would be – how awful it would be if Ron left us for some _girl?_" I shoot back, my brows narrowed. 

Suddenly serious, Harry leans back, looking very pensive. "It's not like he's actually _going anywhere, Hermione." He seems to sense my worry; his look is one of terrible apprehension. _

"Well – what if he gets married to her, and they want to have kids? _Certainly they can't have a houseful of Weasleys in that little flat, Harry!" I exclaim logically. "He'll move away – and then we'll never see him again. He'll be spending all his time taking his kids to Diagon Alley for their Hogwarts school supplies, and playing Quidditch games with them in the backyard, and _everything_."_

I look down at my hands in my lap. I've been fiddling with my bracelet, and now it clatters with an anxiousness that I can only blame myself for. Now we're talking about what I've always feared, and I close my eyes and try not to think about it too much. I wonder if he knows that I'm thinking about his part in this, too; I wonder if he knows that I fear him leaving just as much as Ron.

"_Relax, Hermione. They're going on a first date. They're not getting married anytime soon," Harry tells me, giving me a friendly rub on the back. I had just remembered his hand was even there. _

"I know – but, Harry, it could certainly happen. And then – and then you'll go off, and get married, too, and leave me all alone in my flat with my books." 

"Hermione, please, stop. You're just getting anxious now. No one's getting married anytime soon, and I'm certain that _if _someone did, we would still all stick together for better or for worse. And as for right now – you stick with _me_ until Ron gets back from his date. Everything will be perfectly normal in the morning, I'm sure," Harry tells me, giving me a worried look. "Are you alright, though? You look – _pale. Or maybe it's the light."_

"I'm fine. I'm sorry. I just – it scares me." I put a hand over my jingling bracelet. 

"Is – is this something that's been bothering you for a real long time, Hermione? I mean – is _this _why you've been crying a lot, and why you didn't want to go on that date with the guy from your university, and all that?" Harry asks me. "Is it because you don't want to have anything to do with anybody but me and Ron?"

I give a small laugh, because he almost has a clue, and he almost totally understands. But what he doesn't know is the cruelest irony of all; he doesn't know that it's very much more complicated that that. And that's why he can't solve this, not this time. "That's pretty much it," I tell him. 

"Hermione, listen to me – look at me." He touches a hand to my cheek and makes me look him dead in the eye, straight through his glasses, like looking through a wall. "Ron can go on as many dates as he wants – and you can, too, if you like. Or you don't have to. It doesn't matter, because no matter what, we're best friends, and nothing at all can change that. We'll always be there for each other. Ron might not be here right now, but don't you trust him? He'll come back. And if you go off dating boys in your university, you'll come back, too. I know you will. I trust you will. Do you understand what I'm saying?" 

I give a small nod. He obviously hasn't even thought about the fact that none of what he says makes sense when two of those people out of three are dating. 

Harry nods, letting me go. "Okay, good. I just – you ought to know that," he says quietly. "I mean – if it worries you again, let me know." He swallows. "I've been thinking about that, too, honestly." 

"Really?" I ask. 

"Sure. I mean, not often, though." 

There is a moment of silence, where we both look around the empty rose garden, very aware of how alone we are, and how noisy the city is, but noting the silence and darkness surrounding us. We are so very alone. 

"Hermione," he says, and I turn to him. I can only barely see his face, guarded with shadows. "If Ron has a date again tomorrow night, and you're not busy with anything – I've been told that there's a place down the street with really good soup. We could go." 

Smiling, I nod. "Alright, then."

He seems to be relieved by this, and leans back, arching his back to stretch it. "Like I said, ee'll probably be left alone a lot of times, if Ron and this new girl hit it off real well." Harry gives me a sideways glance, which I notice with some curiosity.  "We could go together to every restaurant in the whole _block, if we wanted to." _

Suddenly, it hits me. Hints – Harry's been dropping hints to me all _night. It seems as though he's been planning to say this, and that he's got his nerves on edge. Could it be--? My stomach whirls like it's being sucked down a drain and I don't know what to say, how to feel, how to breathe. I've suddenly lost my appetite for this rose garden, these smells, and this darkness. I've never been more terrified in my life of him._

I turn to him, and I know that there's shock written like a stop sign all over my face. "Harry, are you – are you asking me _out_, Harry?" 

He arches an eyebrow at me playfully. "I believe I already did ask you out, tomorrow night. Or weren't you paying attention?" 

I shake my head at him. "No, no, Harry, I mean – are you making – do you have intentions to _date _me, Harry?" 

Harry looks me straight in the eye in between the shadows that this damned darkness causes. He looks at me hard and sees the fear lodged like an ice pick in my face, bleeding blue. Uncomfortably, he looks down and away from me. "I had intentions to date you, until you – well, now you seem very _unwilling to the idea."_

"I— Harry, since when has this happened?"

"Since when has what happened?" he asks me. 

I laugh tensely. "Since when have you wanted to date me?"

His eyebrows raise up in a jump, as though the question had shocked him. His eyes are fixed on his knees. "I don't remember. I mean – you've always been there for me, Hermione. Don't you expect that I should start having feelings for you?" He shrugs. 

"Harry, I – I don't think you know what you want," I cry out, standing up and meaning to walk away. My hands are shaking violently. This is Harry, giving me a confession of his emotions, and I'm getting up to walk away, because I don't want to have to answer him. I don't want to have to choose between being a friend and being a girlfriend.

"I do, though! Please, Hermione. Come back, just listen to me, please," he pleads, begging. I hear him jump to his feet. His shoes hit the ground, their rhythm familiar like home. I can hear the urgency in his voice. 

I pause, looking at the black tips of my shoes, and turn around, scowling, not wanting to seem overly eager. 

Harry shoves his hands into his pockets, fiddling with his keys. I can hear them jiggling. "Listen, Hermione – don't you think that I've been thinking about this for a long time now?" he asks me, and the keys jingle a little bit more, a little faster, a little louder. "I asked you about it, even. Do you remember me asking you if I ought to date again? And I told you I was lonely – because I wanted to date _you_, Hermione."

I swallow, wringing my hands together. I'm sure that my eyes are wide like a deer's in the nighttime. Harry's head falls a bit, embarrassed. The darkness of his hair catches freckles of light from far away, and his eyes look like dark pools of emptiness, like he's poured himself out.

"But you didn't seem very encouraging. You didn't seem to understand how I felt, and I thought that maybe you didn't feel anything like that, like you didn't need anyone. So I dropped it, and told you that you ought to date, to cover up – but, Hermione, I didn't want to say that." With a look of apology, he makes a step towards me, and I don't back away, because I'm too frozen to do so.

Now he's close, standing arm's length away, a dark monster in the middle of the rose garden, a creature that's haunted my dreams for long nights, but a thing I've always feared coming to terms with. He says to me with a voice low and husky, "I know I've blown hot and cold, because I haven't known how I stood with you. Whenever I was about to say something, I would chicken out, thinking that it would ruin everything, absolutely everything."

"It will," I tell him in desperation. "It will ruin absolutely _everything." _

"But, Hermione, please – I'm – I love you." I feel my breath get sucked in when he says it, and my eyes water with tears of joy, tears of pain, tears of horror. It's probably not the argument he had in mind, but it's the best damn argument I've ever heard. 

When I'm silent for too long, Harry turns away. The shagginess of his bangs hangs down into his eyes, which are downcast to the stones of the pathway. He scuffs one with the end of his shoe. "Never mind, then," he says, his voice gone gruff.  "I mean – obviously, this is all one-sided." 

I shake my head, unable to let him think that he's unloved. Haven't I been a friend, even when my heart craves to be anywhere but there? Haven't I stood there by him through thick and thin? Of course I love him. He's _Harry, for goodness' sake. "Harry – never think that I don't love you. Don't _ever _think that." I grab his hand, and my bracelet quivers like an arrow that's just been loosed. _

Harry looks up at me. Now the light hits him, only in his eyes, so that their green sparks like magic all its own. His look is one of depression, of angst, of embarrassment. "You love me as a friend, Hermione. That doesn't even _begin_ to describe what I feel for you." Tenderly, he runs his finger along the palm of my hand. But his tone is one of the ultimate hurt. 

Harry blinks and casts a glance to the stones. "Let's – let's go, Hermione." 

He turns away, loosing his hand from my grip. I see him retreat, thinking that I'm following. His form falls into the shadows like he's a ghost, and he's falling away from himself, from me. I've just hurt Harry, I'm hurting myself, I'm breaking apart everything – everything is _already_ ruined. 

Before I know it, my eyes have spilled over. I stifle a sob and bury my hands in my face. Everything is already ruined, and nothing can be done now. I've forced Harry into a stalemate and myself into a dark cage where he cannot even touch me. I feel the water running between my fingers, wet and salty like the sea that I'm crying from my eyes. 

"Hermione?" Harry says. He sounds far away, and I can hardly see him. I can only hear his voice through my tears. 

Suddenly his hands are on my shoulders, pulling my hands from my face. "Hermione – don't worry about it, alright? It's not your fault. There's nothing you can do." His palm smoothes across the wetness of my cheek, pulling away loose strands of hair, and through my glassy eyes I can see the traces of light on his face, catching the worry etched there. 

His hands linger a moment longer on me, hesitating, but I feel them pull away with a regret, as though it was so hard for him to do. 

"Harry," I say, choking, not sure how to say this, "Harry, how could I not return your feelings? How could – how could I not be in _love_ with you? You're – you're _Harry,_ for goodness' sake." 

I know he's gone tense, because he looks at me with an expression of blankness, of disbelief. Suddenly, he's gathered me in his arms – I feel, between my moments of shock, his hands all over my back, my hips, my stomach, my hair. I feel his face buried in my shoulder, in my wild hair, and my body pressed against his chest, hard, like he's never letting me go. 

My blood pumps faster than it's ever gone, like the Snitch has gone loose inside of me, and I just want him to hold me, touch me all over, find it—

"Hermione – oh, Hermione," he whispers into my ear, kissing my neck. My breath quickens. "Why didn't you say something?"

"Because I thought it would ruin everything, and now it has – now it has, Harry. Nothing can _ever_ be the same again," I cry, smothering a sob into his shirt, its green fabric cloaking the sadness in my eyes. 

"Is that so bad, Hermione? Is that so terrible? Now, look – is _this so terrible?" His arms tighten around me and I'm pulled even harder against him, so hard it almost hurts, but it feels so good. I'm left looking up into his face. _

"No – and _yes._ I'm your best friend, Harry – what if we don't work out, and our friendship is ruined? I can never see you in the same light again, not after this." 

"But – I thought about this. I really did – and if we don't work out, won't you still be my best friend? You'll always be my best friend, whether I'm dating you or not. And Ron will always be our best friend, too.  We're all three inseparable, and that's how it's always going to be."

My head drops. "You sound so sure, Harry." I sigh, leaning my forehead against his chest. "But – it's so different. Everything is changed."

"Is it? I don't think so. It doesn't matter what you call this – this relationship between us. All I know is that I'm in love with you, and I have been for a long time. I'll be your best friend who loves you. I'll be your best friend and – boyfriend at once."

"But, Harry – how can you be both at the same time? How can you be – everything at the same time?" Frustrated, I bite my lip. "There's me, and then there's you, and then there's Ron. Why is it – _different with Ron than with you? I can't understand it. I like to be in control of what I feel – but I can't, not now." _

I let out a shaky sigh. "I don't know why I'm in love with you. I fought it – tried to set up dates for myself, even, but it always came out that I couldn't have it any other way but with you, somehow. I thought – I'll always be here for you, but I never knew _how _I wanted that to be, how we _should_ be. What _are we now?" _

"That depends on how you want me, Hermione." I look at him, and I see a passion in his eyes that I've never seen him have. His eyes are deep and penetrating, like his glasses aren't even there, like I can see straight into him. "I can be – however you _want_ me to be." 

I swallow and feel my chest rumbling. I know – if I kiss him, it seals the deal. 

I pull him down to me, gripping him by his shirt collar, and I kiss him. 

His arms are like a steel cage I don't want to get out of, pinning me against his chest, right over his heart. His hands touch me everywhere, like they have a hunger all their own. His lips are soft like I always thought they would be, supple. His mouth is an invasion of privacy on mine, wet, inviting me in, his taste like nothing I've ever tasted, like heat – like his bed sheets. His kiss is – amazing, breathtaking, and I can't even breathe. 

I've never been kissed like this, with such power, with such passion – with such a need. I wonder how long he's wanted to kiss me. Harry lets me go, his mouth breaking from mine, but I need him, too, and I don't let him go and kiss him again. And kiss him and kiss him and kiss him. 

When we finally do let go of each other, I know I'm a total wreck. My robe has slipped partway off one shoulder, and Harry's glasses are on crooked. Both of us are too breathless for speech. 

I smile, though, bigger than I've smiled all night, bigger than I've smiled in all my life. I touch his glasses and mean to fix them, and he blushes – _blushes! – and laughs, too. His arms loosen on my waist and I wobble, weak in my knees. Harry raises his eyebrows at me. "That good?" he asks. _

My cheeks hurt from smiling so much.  

**(Not the end!)**


	5. Epilogue

I am awoken by the sound of my front door opening. I hear the lock open and the hinges creak, just as they always do. I hear Ron's familiar footsteps falling on the ground. He tends to shuffle a bit, and I can hear the soles of his shoes squeaking on the tiles.

I am vaguely aware of a warmness all over me, and the sun shines through the window brighter than I've ever seen it, glaring into my eyes with a new intensity. 

Groggily, I sit up. And then, my heart jumps in my chest and I panic. _Ron is coming!_

From outside the hall, he calls to me, "Hermione, wake up! My freezer is empty again and I was wondering if you have any eggs--?" And then he steps in through the bedroom door.

He makes a sharp gasp, his eyes wide. In the bed next to me, Harry sits up, having also been woken up by Ron's loudness. Harry reaches across my stomach for his glasses on the nightstand and has to fumble through his discarded shirt to find them. 

"—Preferably unfertilized?" Ron adds. 

I can feel the color swarm into my cheeks. "Ron! We – we didn't--" Nervous and totally embarrassed at being caught in bed with a half-naked Harry, I pull the covers up over my mouth.

Suddenly, the shock falls away from his face and he grins like a Cheshire cat. His look is so utterly amused that I can't help but to smile, too. "There's only three left, but you can have them all if you like," I say. 

"Thanks, Hermione. Would you like me to pop in some toast for you and Harry, once he gets dressed?" He eyes Harry, who has found his glasses but is still blinking through them sleepily and with self-consciousness.

"Alright. Thank you," I yield. Ron winks at me and turns out of the room. 

I look at Harry. Now that he's fully realized what just happened, his cheeks are flushed pink. But he cracks an embarrassed smile and reaches for his shirt. I can't help but to grin while I crawl out of bed, dragging the sheets on my legs. 

Harry tugs the shirt over his shoulders, adjusting it and pulling the cloth over his stomach. "He didn't _seem_ upset," Harry says, making an amused glance at me. 

"No, he didn't. But – well, I think we still have something to worry about," I say, pulling my shirt straight, since it had slipped a bit off one shoulder. 

"What's that?" Harry asks, looking curious.

"His jokes," I remark, and Harry chuckles.

We go into the kitchen, and Ron is at the table, sitting, with the pan sitting in the sink. I know that Harry would have at least washed the pan. Ron's got his mouth full of eggs and his eyes follow us as we enter the room. He seems to be almost – giving us maternal looks, to be sure we haven't hurt each other. I see his eyes flit across us, perhaps looking for signs of – well, I don't even want to know. 

"I put the toast on the counter for you two," he says finally, and then he puts his fork in his mouth again. "Eat up, before it gets cold."

I take the plate over to the table, and Harry and I sit across from Ron. Ron looks perfectly unaffected, chewing while flipping through the comics in the Daily Prophet. The little comic characters move across the boxes, throwing pans at each other and making shrieking noises. The toast sits untouched still between us. Ron takes notice of our silence and looks up. 

"Seems that we're going to have a talk now," Ron says obviously, nudging his eggs. 

"We were going to tell you, Ron, about -- this." Harry glances towards my bedroom. Harry looks a bit nervous, irregardless of his former calmness, and a flushed look is still on his face. He rakes a hand through his hair, and the strands go every which way, piled loose on his head. "Truth be told, this is a very recent development." He leans forward, trying to show some logic and solidity. 

"How recent?" Ron asks, with a look of skepticism on his face. 

"Last night," Harry replies coolly. 

Ron smirks. "Obviously so!" 

"No," Harry says, shaking his head and trying to hide a charmed smile. "No, really, it was _just_ last night when Hermione and I – well, we talked, and decided that this was the right thing to do." 

Ron sets down his fork and looks very serious. "Awful quick to be sleeping with each other," he comments. 

Frustrated and totally embarrassed, I put my elbows on the table and bury my face in my hands. "Ron, we – we _didn't. _Please, can you try and understand?" I say, my tone revealing how vexed I am. 

I look up at Ron, and Ron's grinning at me from ear to ear, his freckles sticking out against the expanse of his cheeks. "I know you didn't. But did you think I would ever pass up on an opportunity to tease you?" he shoots back. Taking a breath for seriousness, he puts his elbows on the table and leans across, as if he were making a business deal. "Tell me though, Hermione – what exactly _is going on between you two? What is this – resolution that you two have come to?" _

I stare back at him, a knot forming in the back of my throat. I don't know, I tell myself. I don't know still what you could call it. But now, it doesn't matter what you call it, because, no matter _how_ I have Harry, I still have Harry. Nothing has changed, except for that now, I hide nothing, especially not the truth. I hide not my heart, nor my speech, nor my passion. I am a free woman, freed by three words. 

"A resolution – well, I don't know about a resolution. But – I'm in love with him." I lean back, the cunning negotiator. "Does that explain anything?" 

Ron cocks an eyebrow. "It explains some, though not all." Ron turns to Harry. "Have some toast, mate. You must be starved. Though, it's probably gone all cold, and the butter's probably made the bread all soggy. But, still, it's your fault for not eating it sooner." Ron nudges the plate towards Harry with his fingertip.

Harry gives a smile to Ron and takes a piece. "It's warm enough," he says, and bites into it. 

Ron turns back to me. "And so you confessed your passionate love to Harry last night," he says dramatically. "But I wasn't even aware that you even felt anything for him," Ron remarks calmly. "You should have told me." 

I hang my head. "Ron – do you remember, once, I asked you why guys date silly girls when they've got perfectly good female friends? And you said it was a factor of prettiness. What kind of encouragement was that?" 

Ron squints at me, mockingly. "Well, you made it sound so hypothetical. I was saying that the _average_ male is just easily attracted to pretty, silly girls. Of course, had you told me the truth, and that you meant _Harry_, I would have told you something _completely_ different."

I sigh and make a face. "But, I couldn't tell the whole truth to anyone, not even you, because I was so confused. I didn't know what to think – I didn't even know if I wanted anything to come of it, because I was afraid everything would get different, and that – and that you would end up interviewing me in the very uncomfortable manner that you're doing now." Ron shrugs, not sincerely apologetically for giving me hell.

I sigh. "I thought everything would just sort of go away on its own. I didn't want to think about it, or confront it, or anything. I was so busy sorting out my feelings for Harry and you--"

"Me?" Ron gasps with a very flabbergasted expression. "Were you in love with me, too?" 

"Well, no. I'm sorry, Ron – don't be offended or anything," I mutter apologetically, folding my hands together and twisting the bones painfully. "I would tell you why I'm in love with Harry and not with you, but I haven't figured that out. I hope it doesn't hurt your feelings or anything." 

Ron gives me an affectionate, brotherly smile. "I'm not offended, not in the least. You're like a sister to me, Hermione. There's nothing wrong with that. It's not that you love me less than you love Harry, is it? It's just that you love us – _differently." _

"Yes," I say with an awed sort of look to my face. "Yes, Ron, that's _exactly it. It's not a matter of degree, but a matter of – of _how._" I give a grin, hugely relieved. "I hadn't thought of it that way. I had thought – that maybe I was doing you some sort of injustice, or something." My face falls a little. "That still doesn't explain why I love you one way and Harry another." I look at Harry, who is finishing up the crust of his toast, and looks very calm. I'm jealous that he gets to sit in silence and eat toast, undisturbed by Ron's pestering, and curious as to why. _

"Well – hell if _I_ know, Hermione. If _you can't even figure it out, neither can I. But, honestly, do we need to get all logical with it? Let's stick with the facts: you're in love with Harry and I'm your best friend, you slept in his bed last night but kept your knickers on, and you haven't eaten any toast yet. That's all that matters." _

I laugh, a real hearty laugh. "I think those are all the facts, Ron." I reach for some toast, noticing how hungry I am after his remark. "Is it Harry's turn now to get interviewed?" 

Ron shakes his head. "No. I knew Harry had feelings for you a while back. I really quizzed him then; I figured I ought to go easy on him now."

I give Harry a look. "How long ago was this?" I ask, surprised. 

Harry bites his lip. "Very, very long ago," he confesses. "Do you remember when you moved in here and I was dating all those girls, on and off, and then I stopped very suddenly? It was because I realized that the girl in the apartment next to me was – better than all of them, by far." 

I blush, flattered. "That was a really long time ago. Several months ago. That was when you stopped dating for good." 

"And to think that I waited so long before actually saying something," Harry sighs, shrugging at his own indecisiveness. "You really should credit Ron with some of it, though. He was telling me all along to say something." 

Ron gives me a huge grin. 

Harry snorts. "Oh, don't act like you're such a star. Then you got drunk and nearly told her, for Peeves' sake! It's a good thing she got you off to bed when she did." 

Ron makes an unassuming face at Harry. "I am responsible for nothing when I'm drunk, Harry. We've discussed this. By that point, the alcohol has taken over my system so much that I'm not even _Ron _anymore. I'm either Fred or George, or maybe both. I'm the devil that I've locked inside of me for so long; it just springs loose." 

"Same thing," Harry yields. We all laugh, and it's just perfect. Harry and I are in love, and Ron is still our best friend, and it's a beautiful day in London, and I know – I'm at _home. I'm at home with the two people I love the most and everything is comfortable like old shoes, so comfortable that I could fall asleep in this moment, with the laughter echoing along my walls and the old picture frames and the rest of my life. _

Ron takes one of our pieces of toast. "You still haven't explained why I wasn't immediately formed of your – of your coming-to-terms-with-your-feelings." 

I scratch my head, noting that there's only one piece of toast left, and I kind of want it, but I know Harry is eyeing it, too. "Last night, we would have come over and told you about everything that happened, but you were busy." 

"And–?" Ron prompts.

I sigh. "Okay, well, perhaps we were a little preoccupied, too," I admit.  

Satisfied, he munches on the toast, giving us a cocky look. I make a glance at Harry, and blush, trying not to think back to last night, but knowing it's too late. "Do you want the last piece of toast?" I ask him. 

"We'll split it," he says. So we do, breaking the bread and making eyes at each other over the crust, looking at each other like we did when we were falling asleep in each others' arms, the sheets pulled up to our chins, the midnight being filled with a soft patter of nighttime rain and—

"Can we lay out a rule, real fast?" Ron says, looking at us desperately. "If you're going to go kissing each other, put a towel on the bedroom doorknob or something, so that I know?" 

"Alright, Ron," Harry says, "although, I don't think it's a thing you'll have to worry about right this second." 

"Judging from the way you two are looking at each other, I beg to differ," Ron says, rising. "I think I'm going to go, anyways." 

"You don't have to, Ron," I say. 

"Oh, I know I don't. But what's to say that I don't have a pretty young bird asleep in _my_ bed, where I left her last night? I ought to get back to her," Ron says cheerily, putting his dishes in the sink.

"Ron! Do you really?" I gasp. 

"Maybe. Wouldn't you love to know?" he teases. "If you two get to keep your secrets from me for one night, then I can keep a secret from you for one morning." 

His face is so radiant that I know he's kidding. Harry tells him, "At 12 o'clock, I'm coming over to check, Ron."

"Well, good. That gives me enough time to feed my girlfriend some breakfast and have her on her way, so that you never have to know the truth," Ron says. He pauses at the door. "By the way – what _are you two, anyway? Are you girlfriend and boyfriend, or simply dating, or illicit _lovers_, or – what?" _

I look at Harry, and he looks at me. And we know, even if we can't put a name to it. "Frankly, Ron, we have no idea," Harry says.

"I didn't think you would. Figures!" And with a huff like that, he's gone. 

I smile as the door closes, and turn back to Harry. "I think everything's going to be okay," I tell him. 

"I told you it would be, didn't I?" Harry says, giving me a lopsided grin. "Ron holds no grudge, we both feel relieved, and – now we're alone." He takes my hand in his own and gives it a squeeze. "I'll help you wash the dishes, if you want." 

"Sure," I say. "How about – I wash, and you dry?" 

"Sounds good," he says. 

I go over, flick on my radio, and a song bursts into the sunshiny air. "Music helps chores go faster, I think," I say, smirking at him. 

Harry smiles at me, having followed me into the kitchen area, and puts an arm around my waist. "Yes, I think so, too – but what if we want to take our time?" he asks, giving me a kiss on the cheek. 

I blush, amused. 

_All you got is this moment.  
Twenty-first century's yesterday.  
You can care all you want.  
Everybody does, yeah, that's okay._

I start washing the pan, scrubbing against the remnants of Ron's eggs, soap up to my elbows and the warm water sliding like oil between my fingers. Harry stands behind me, his hands twined around my waist, moving in small motions to the rhythm of the music. His warmth all over my back is somehow hotter than the scalding water in the sink.   
_  
So slide over here  
And give me a moment  
Your moves are so raw  
I've got to let you know  
I've got to let you know  
You're one of my kind  
  
_Harry has a towel in his hands for drying the dishes. He holds it taut between his hands, like a rope, and pulls it back towards him against my stomach, pulling me closer into him. His lips trail along my neck, kissing softly; the palms of his hands brush against the skin of my side.

It's very difficult to wash dishes when someone's doing that. "Harry," I murmur, and my wet, soaped-up hands wander to his on my waist, and the bubble run to his fingertips.  
_  
I need you tonight  
'Cause I'm not sleeping  
There's something about you girl  
That makes me sweat  
  
_I turn around in his grasp to face him, and push myself in to kiss him. His mouth tastes like the heat of the night, like warm arms. He just tastes like Harry. His lips press wet against mine, deep like a trench that I could spend my entire life in. I feel my hair in the sink, but I don't care, and I'm getting wet spots all over Harry where I touch him, but I don't care. We're so close that I can almost feel the blood thundering through Harry's veins as his skin pulses against mine.

_How do you feel?  
I'm lonely.  
What do you think?  
Can't take it all._

To think – to think I was afraid of this._  
  
Whatcha gonna do?  
Gonna live my life._

He and I meet eyes, breaking apart.  And I know what I should have known all along – that nothing would stop this. I couldn't even stop this from happening. Now I lay myself back in the arms of my lover and grab the reins with both hands, not scared of anything, because there is nothing to fear. 

Now I will truly live.

I suppose that there's a moral to end this story. So much has happened in so little time that my head is still sort of in a daze from it all. All along, I considered Harry to be so lovesick, when the sickest person of all was me, so blinded by my disease to trust in our friendship and our love. I do know one thing now, in the midst of everything: the best medicine for lovesickness is – to simply let that love come to you, and not fight it. Merlin knows, there's no use fighting love. 

_You're my kind._


End file.
